


Kashmir Sweater

by superagentwolf



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ficlet, Gen, Irish slang, Late Night Conversations, Pre-Slash, Shadow Moon is Tired, Sweeney Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: Shadow Moon knows fuckall and Sweeney is trying to be nice. They're both too tired for it to work exactly right, but that's how things go in their world. At least it works at all.





	Kashmir Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant only because it's an indeterminate time and doesn't fuck too much with anything else. Other than that...

Mad Sweeney is standing in his doorway, mouth gaping as he licks his bottom lip. He looks ready to say something, head tilted and one eye squinting in Shadow’s general direction. The night behind the man- _leprechaun_ \- is calm and dark.

Shadow’s just about to say something, too tired to play games, when Sweeney strides forward, kicking the door shut behind him. Shadow tenses on the bed. He’s supposed to be keeping a low profile, but something tells him Sweeney won’t care.

There’s a rustle and a _thump_ \- something wrapped in dirty paper falls onto the bed beside Shadow. He didn’t see it before- _is he pulling other shit out of thin air, now? What the fuck?_

“Well?”

Sweeney’s eyes widen, a little (a lot) crazy, and Shadow forgets not to ask himself why he’s in the middle of shit like this again.

“…what is it?”

He’s not expecting an answer, but there’s no harm in asking.

“Well, _open_ it, ya muppet.”

Or maybe there is.

Shadow picks it up gingerly. It feels light- too light to be a decapitated head, or something equally charming. He tries not to be obvious when he tries to decipher what the mysterious stains on the package are.

“Like biscuits to a bear,” Sweeney says incredulously, talking to the sky, irritation mounting.

Shadow tenses again, ready for some verbal or physical assault, but Sweeney doesn’t move.

He thinks. Thinks about how worth it taking a beating would be for the chance to _not_ open the mystery package. He’s not sure it won’t be some sort of incriminating evidence. It would be like Sweeney to give him some murdered man’s shirt just to cause trouble…

“Am I going to regret this?”

He says it more to himself than the leprechaun, but Sweeney responds anyways.

“Yer a right stook, Shadow Moon.”

“You do know I don’t understand half of what you’re saying?”

“Yeh get the point, _ass_.”

Shadow shakes his head, somehow more tired than before, and peels back the paper.

He’s pleasantly surprised in that it’s not a body part. It is, instead, a sweater. A quite lovely one, too. He can feel his brow furrow as he brushes fingertips over the greenish-brown material, taken aback at how soft it is. It feels extraordinarily pretty, even though the color is somewhat unattractive. _Olive,_ he thinks, but like a bad olive.

“Is this cursed?”

“Oh, I will ya,” Sweeney replies, sarcasm rich.

Shadow guesses that means _no_.

“…thanks,” he manages, not seeing any clear traps.

Sweeney rocks on his feet, unusually still. He peers at Shadow, still licking his lips nervously.

“It’s goin’ ta be cold, where yer goin’.”

Shadow tries not to smile in amusement. He tries but knows he fails when Sweeney scowls, looking away.

“You got me a sweater,” he says, half to convince himself of the fact and half to ask why.

“ _Yes_ , I got yeh a sweater. Now stop giving me them boss eyes.”

_Okay. New tactic._

“Why did you get me a sweater?”

“Did yeh not _hear_ me the first time?”

Sweeney saunters closer, his usual violent swagger, but there’s a nervous energy to it that makes Shadow think he’s doing it on instinct. He wonders why. It’s not like he thinks Sweeney is heartless; he knows there must be _some_ things he cares about.

“You got me a sweater because you thought I’d be cold. You-,” Shadow stops, almost swallowing his tongue as he doesn’t finish the sentence, _you_ _care about me_.

Sweeney chews the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed, and he steps closer again. In arm’s reach. Shadow resigns himself to getting hit, folding a hand and the paper over the sweater because it’s too nice to get blood on. _Not that I won’t get any on it later. Hell, it’s a miracle of it lasts a week at this rate._

“Yeh know what that is?”

“Cashmere?”

He knows the feel of it. Immeasurably soft. Expensive.

Sweeney pauses, eyes closed and teeth grit as if someone in the vicinity just scraped nails against chalkboard, and Shadow gets the feeling he’s said something wrong.

“…yes. With a kay.”

“…a…kay? You mean K, like Kashmir, the place-?”

“Yes, _the place_ ,” Sweeney imitates, snorting. “See, this is what happened to my coin, isn’t it- yeh just don’t know what yeh got in yer dirty paws.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

He’s irritated, partially because the coin has come up again (and it is his fault, a little) and partially because he’s just too damn tired to be talking circles with a leprechaun. He’s pretty sure Sweeney is sober, which just makes it worse because there’s no quick, violent resolution.

Not that he likes violence, he reminds himself.

“Kashmir. Pretty little hellhole. Yeh got yer Buddhists, Hindus, Shaiva- not in that particular order- and all the wars and fighting and shite. All these religions and conflicts tumbling over the stones like meat through a bloody prayer wheel.”

Shadow can feel his nose wrinkling at the mental image. Part of him wonders where the hell Sweeney is going with this and part of him doesn’t want to know.

“Anyhow, yer grand mess- which you people _love_ ta make of everything, and right in the middle of it, _goats_.”

“Goats.”

“Goats.”

“…you gave me a sweater because of goats.”

The crazed joy on Sweeney’s face breaks and then Shadow is punched just enough to knock him back onto the bed. It hurts just enough to feel real and he thinks _finally, we can finish this,_ but then there’s a heavy weight over him and six-point-five feet of irritated Irishman.

“When do you ever _listen_? I gave ya a fuckin’ sweater of _blood and glory_. It’s got so many prayers and dick-all in it and you’re laughin’ about _goats_.”

Sweeney smiles like Southern comfort and stale cigarettes. He does, but there’s something else in his breath. Something sweet. Shadow feels compelled to seek it out, wondering what it is, and he jerks upwards despite himself. He knows he could probably toss Sweeney off, or at least give him a good enough knock to make him move; he just hasn’t moved yet because…well, because something.

“A bloody sweater. Yes. Thanks.”

Sweeney’s face falls a little and Shadow feels a pit of guilt in his stomach. He tries to tell himself _no, he broke into your hotel room, you don’t have to feel sorry for the fucker,_ but he’s having a hard time believing it. Right now, all he sees is the same tired expression he sees on Wednesday’s face after a couple of hours in the isolation of the car. After a half-botched recruitment stint.

“Yer so used to being taken fer granted, yer gonna do it to me, now?”

It feels like a punch to the gut, but not in the way insults about Laura had felt. This hits deeper.

Sweeney rolls away, eyes still sharp, but Shadow recognizes the slope of his shoulders. The bone-deep pain. Despite himself, he finds his hand reaching out, stopping just short of the figure before him. He pauses, not sure why, and looks down at the sweater.

“I mean it. Thank you.”

Sweeney is quiet. He’s running a coin over his fingers, shiny and slow. Small _pat_ sounds as it taps against flesh. He watches it like it’s supposed to tell him something, and what the fuck does Shadow know, maybe it will.

“Don’t get yerself killed, yeh dick. And lay out some bread fer me if yeh think you’ve gone too far.”

He doesn’t ask about the bread, watching Sweeney rise from the edge of the bed and walk away. His boots creak on the floor as he goes, a tired slump in his shoulders.

“You got a room?”

Sweeney pauses, fingers on the doorknob, mouth twitching.

“I’ve got business.”

Shadow nods, knowing Sweeney can’t see him, but he doesn’t think that makes a difference.

“Stay alive,” he says, because he means it.

“Can’t make any promises,” Sweeney grins, toothy, and then the door swings shut behind him.

He leaves a trail of smoke and alcohol behind him like a burnt path. Shadow inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling, wonder who gods pray to. He hopes whoever Sweeney talks to, they’re listening.

He’s not half bad.


End file.
